


Raw

by darlingred1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Lace Panties, Lingerie, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 16:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10701090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingred1/pseuds/darlingred1
Summary: “You’ve worn…” Sherlock licked his lips, seeming to struggle with the words.“Lingerie?” John finished for him. “A bit. Knickers, mostly.”





	Raw

It started with an absent-minded comment. On a case, Sherlock’s mind going a mile a minute and John, as always, trying to keep up, verbally throwing out any little thought in hopes of helping as Sherlock claimed that he sometimes did. Then, the silence when John tossed out something maybe a touch too revealing. The soft sigh of Sherlock’s dressing gown in the air as he spun round and fixed John with a stare as sharp as a scalpel.

“You’ve worn…” Sherlock licked his lips, seeming to struggle with the words.

“Lingerie?” John finished for him. “A bit. Knickers, mostly.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

“Ex-girlfriend,” Sherlock deduced. “She was interested. You obliged.”

“Mm-hm.”

The scalpel descended, cutting a swift line from John’s face to his toes. As Sherlock’s gaze lingered slightly on the zip of his trousers, John had a sudden urge to cover himself but resisted it.

“You liked it,” said Sherlock. When he glanced back to John’s face, he looked disappointed, his brows drawn and his bottom lip plumped in a pout. “You never told me.”

John blinked. Cast his mind back to the early days of their relationship, the hours spent in Sherlock’s (now very much _their_ ) bed fucking in every way possible, learning each other, John drawing confession after confession from Sherlock’s brilliant mouth about past experiences, desires, fantasies. Even if John hadn’t meant anything by withholding some of his own, he supposed Sherlock probably had a right to his disappointment.

Still, he shrugged. “Didn’t realise you’d want to know.”

It was the worst thing to say. John didn’t even need the shudder—and then the shutter—that passed across Sherlock’s features to tell him that, although it certainly drove the point home.

John flinched. “Sorry. I—”

“You don’t still have any of it,” Sherlock said. A statement, not a question. Of course. These days especially, John couldn’t bring even a new pen into the flat without Sherlock knowing about it.

“Er. No.” A thought came, but stalled on his tongue. He forced it out. “Should I?”

This time, Sherlock’s gaze burnt John as hotly and brilliantly as a star. “ _Yes_.”

  


* * *

  


John bought one pair to start, from a specialty shop in Soho. They were navy blue and lace—a style called _cheeky_ , according to the tag, which apparently meant that half his arse hung out even though his cock nestled nicely in the front pouch.

They weren’t comfortable. The lace scratched him a bit around his bollocks, but, if he was perfectly honest with himself, that was part of the appeal. Every step he took, he was painfully aware of what he was wearing, feeling the lace chafe back and forth across his most sensitive skin.

John could also admit that he looked bloody good in them, especially from behind. The style accentuated the curve of his arse, exaggerated it even so that his bum looked almost as delicious as Sherlock’s. After he got home from the shop, he cut off the tags, put the knickers on, and then just stood in the bedroom admiring himself in the full-length mirror. Feeling a bit like Sherlock, preening over his own gorgeousness—which inspired him to steal one of Sherlock’s crisp white button-down shirts from the wardrobe and slip it on.

It didn’t quite swallow him, but it was long enough that it draped over his arse, covering the knickers. He buttoned the shirt, bunched and wrinkled the fabric, and rucked it up in the back.

_Mm_ , he thought, examining himself in the mirror again. _Yeah. That’ll do it._

Then John went to the kitchen to wait for Sherlock.

He stood near the sink, facing the cupboards, and switched between pretending to do the washing-up and pretending to start making tea until he heard Sherlock’s heavy shoes on the stairs. The flat door opened and shut.

“Ridiculous,” said Sherlock, vehemently. “A simple misplaced sample of _Vibrio vulnificus_ , more than a week ago, and now Molly’s barred me from—”

There was a clatter, the noise of something heavy and plastic hitting the floorboards—his phone, John thought—and then silence. Utter, perfect silence. Smirking, John turned on the tap and held a tea-stained mug under the stream.

“Hm?” he said casually.

Another beat of silence, then rustling fabric and a flurry of movement. John expected Sherlock to cross the kitchen, to crowd him against the sink, and so was startled when Sherlock’s approaching footsteps broke off with a thud and a slap of bare skin on floor.

_He got down to crawl_ , John realised a fraction of a second before Sherlock’s big hands were bracketing John’s hips, his thumbs tracing the lace along John’s arse cheeks. His touch was a little cold, and light enough to tickle.

“Jesus,” John said.

The mug slipped from his fingers and clanged against the sink, but thankfully didn’t break. He turned off the tap, and Sherlock apparently decided to take advantage of John bending forwards slightly to press his face against the back of the knickers, his thick curls tickling even worse than his thumbs.

“Sherlock!” said John at the same time that Sherlock purred, “Mmm, John.” His voice rumbled against John’s skin, and his grip on John’s hips tightened. John glanced over his shoulder and watched as Sherlock, eyes squeezed shut, nuzzled the lace and then turned his head and scraped his cheek up and down the back seam.

“Never,” Sherlock murmured, “keep something like this from me again.”

“I wasn’t keeping it from you,” John insisted.

Sherlock ignored him in favour of kissing the lace in the very centre, right over John’s coccyx, and then the bared swell of each arse cheek. The kisses were sweet, chaste, almost reverent. He swept his hands downwards, tracing the edge of the knickers, and followed the trail back up with his nose.

“Mmm. This is my shirt,” Sherlock said, sounding blissful. “You smell like me.”

John smiled. It still wasn’t quite the reaction he’d expected, but he wasn’t complaining. If anything, it was better than he’d imagined. “Yeah? You like that, hm?” He bent forward even further, practically shoving his bottom into Sherlock’s face, and relished Sherlock’s deep, throaty groan.

Another surprise then: Sherlock nipped gently at the fleshiest bit of John’s left cheek and took the edge of the knickers between his teeth, tugged, and let go. He moaned at the snap of the elastic against John’s skin, and did it again.

“Mmmm.” After one more snap, Sherlock left off and simply mashed his face against John’s arse, nuzzling the lace, spreading John’s cheeks with his nose.

John’s cock, interested in the proceedings even before Sherlock had come home, throbbed a bit in its confinement. John palmed himself, gave a little squeeze that felt so sweet he couldn’t help but rock into it, pushing into his hand and then back into Sherlock’s face, which made Sherlock moan anew.

“Sit,” Sherlock said, holding John’s thighs now as he knelt lower, nosing at John’s testicles and where the knickers abraded the skin on either side of them. “I want you to sit on my face. I—oh…”

A lick that John heard more than felt, that soft wet sound of Sherlock’s mouth opening, his tongue stretching. John squeezed his dick harder.

“Later,” he said. “Just…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to, of course. As always, Sherlock knew.

“Keep them on,” Sherlock said. He returned to John’s arse, where the lace was still nudged between his cheeks, and licked with enough force that John heard _and_ felt it. He pushed the fabric deeper, right up against John’s hole and swiped his tongue back and forth, back and forth as John stroked his cock through the lace.

It wasn’t comfortable. The knickers irritated his swollen prick just as much as his balls, and in minutes he was tender and raw—which, in its own way, was even better than if he’d been bare. He felt used, naughty, the worst sort of dirty: reduced to chafing himself to get off while Sherlock tried his damnedest to tongue-fuck him through a layer of lace.

Sherlock’s frustrated noises spurred him on almost as much as the discomfort. Grumbles and snarls as he licked with increasing fervour, letting go of John’s thighs so he could grope John’s arse cheeks and spread them. He jammed his tongue against John’s hole, but still he could only manage a teasing scrape of the lace over the tight, sensitive muscle.

Then, with a growl, Sherlock shoved the back of the knickers to one side and dove in, eating John out like he’d been starved for weeks. Because there was only so much give in the fabric and elastic, he fairly strangled John’s balls in the process, but it hardly mattered. Not when Sherlock was rumbling happily, practically purring like a cat amidst the wet lapping sounds as his clever mouth coaxed John’s arsehole into loosening, stretching around the tip of Sherlock’s tongue.

“Fuck,” John gasped. He stroked his dick faster, dragging the lace up and down the thick shaft like a scratchy, awkward channel for him to fuck, thinking, _Filthy. God, look at me. I’m a filthy fucking bastard._

When he came, spurting into the knickers, he didn’t even care that it was a weak, pathetic little thing, more his body’s desperate surrender than anything. He still moaned gratefully, shoved his arse greedily into Sherlock’s face.

After Sherlock stood, smoothing the knickers and shirt tail back in place, he draped himself along John’s back. His arms wrapped around John’s waist, squeezing and lifting, encouraging John onto his tiptoes until the bulge in his own trousers was nestled against John’s arse.

They rocked against each other, a languid imitation of what Sherlock must’ve been gagging for. He was panting into John’s hair, letting out a soft shuddery moan on every exhale and every grind of his prick into John’s arse.

“I want to fuck you,” Sherlock said, low and breathy, “but I don’t want to take these off.”

He skimmed a hand down John’s front, brushing the wet spot in the knickers and making John hiss and wriggle, too sensitive to be touched. Too raw.

John swallowed. “You could just budge the back down a bit. Put it back when you’re done.”

“Yes?” Sherlock asked. But already he was undoing his trousers, taking out his cock.

“ _Yes_ ,” said John.

 

 


End file.
